“That was easily answered,” said Helgi with a laugh.  “And I can read my fate yet further.  When I part from my foster-brother Estein, then shall a man go to Valhalla.  What say you to that?”

Atli’s face darkened.

“Darest thou mock me?” he cried.

“Not so,” interposed Estein. “’ Bare is back without brother behind it,’ and Helgi means that death only can part us.  Farewell, Atli!  If your prophecy comes true, and I return alive, you may choose what gift you please from among my spoils.”

“Little spoil there will be, Estein!” answered the old man, as the foster-brothers turned from him down the pier.

The last man sprang on board, the oars dipped in the still water, and as the little fleet moved slowly down the fiord the crowd on shore gradually dispersed.

Out at sea, beyond the high headlands that guarded Hernersfiord, a fresh breeze was blowing briskly from the north-east, and past the rocky islets of the coast white caps gleamed in the sunshine.  As the ships drew clear of the fiord, and the boom of the outer sea breaking on the skerries rose louder and nearer, sails were spread and oars shipped.  Slowly at first, and then more quickly as they caught the deep-sea wind, the vessels cut the open water.  Past the islands they heeled to the breeze, and over a wake of foam the men watched the mountains of Norway sink slowly into the wilderness of waters.

On the decked poop of an open boat, sailing over an ocean unknown to him, towards countries of whose whereabouts he was only vaguely informed, Estein Hakonson stood lost in stirring fancies.  He was the only surviving son of the King of Sogn.  Three brothers had fallen in battle, one had perished at sea, and another, the eldest, had died beneath a burning roof-tree.  His education had been conducted according to the only standard known in Scandinavia.  At fourteen he had slain his first man in fair fight; at seventeen he was a Viking captain on the Baltic; and now, at two-and-twenty—­old far beyond his years and hardened in varied experience—­he was setting forth on the Viking path that led to the wonderful countries of the south.

The tide of Norse energy was not yet at the full, the fury and the terror were waxing fast, and the fever of unrest was ever spreading through the North.  Men were always coming back with tales of monasteries filled with untold wealth, and rich provinces to be won by the sword.  Skalds sang of the deeds done in the south, and shiploads of spoil confirmed their lays.  Little wonder then that Estein should feel his heart beat high as he stood by the great tiller.

That night, long after the sun was set, he still sat on deck watching the stars.  By-and-by his foster-brother Helgi came up to him, wrapped in a long sea cloak, and humming softly to himself.

“The night is fair, Estein.  If Thor is kind, and this wind speeds us, we shall soon reach England.”